


With Regards to the Past

by X_Gon_Give_It



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: AU, Abuse, Civil Servant!Peter, Depressing Thoughts, Domestic, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, It's rough, M/M, Peter's just trying to support himself and Miles, Prostitution, Rated Mature, Vulgar Language, Wade's a good guy who blackmails bad people, bouncer!Wade, dad!peter, government laws, kind-of flirting, laws against supers and mutant and mutates, there ARE super powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/X_Gon_Give_It/pseuds/X_Gon_Give_It
Summary: "Oh, names Wade, by the way," he stuck his hand out toward Peter."Then why tell me? The person about to beat you up for money," Peter huffed but shook his hand anyway. "Name's Peter. Just don't call me out on the job.""You seem trustworthy, Peter. A chill, down-to-earth kinda guy. I don't think you'll go blabbing it to people."Wade let go of Peter's hand and Peter returned it to the bar, where it lay against his other arm, lingering with warmth from Wade's fingers.<><><><><><>Its been years since the government passed new laws against superhumans and mutants, and now, Peter finds himself in the job as a Civil Servant, taking petty jobs or selling his body out for money.On a particularly tiring night, he meets Wade Wilson. A strange, flirty bouncer with a weird skin condition.Little did Peter know that that meeting was about to change his life.





	With Regards to the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Aye! New Story-ish. Not sure how many chapters this will have. This story was born out of a bunch of vocabulary words I got from dictionary.com. They basically led the flow of this story, so... 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for depressed thinking and implied sexual content. Keep in the mind the rating.

 

 

The client was, in a word, pomp. Adorned in splendid folds of expensive fabric, with rings on his fingers, diamonds in his ears, and a chin that seemed to permanently stick up as if the overwhelming burden of his wealth was simply too much for the common, poverty-stricken folk to carry. Each step he took was confident and proud as if the ground he walked on should be thankful for the addition of his weight. He looked Peter up and down slowly and crinkled his nose at whatever he saw. With a drawn-out sigh, he sipped the drink in his hand and tossed the empty glass over his shoulder carelessly.

Peter's own nose wrinkled at the display, not caring whether or not his client saw it past his mask.

The client stopped in front of Peter, peering at him through the flashy gold frames of his glasses with a toothy smile that made Peter feel like a dog picked out from the pound. Something nice to flaunt around to gain public attention, but nothing to bring too close for fear of catching fleas. Peter looked past the soft flesh of the man, at the silver elevator he had arrived in, to keep himself calm and steady. Until the man inevitably held his hand out.

Grimacing, Peter pressed the hand to his lips in a chaste kiss to his knuckles, and quickly let go. It was an old, timey gesture that had regained popularity among the rich just recently, and given how many hands Peter has had to kiss, it left him sick to the stomach.

The man nodded, smiling with the genial charms of a viper, and refit his hand to his side, wiping it slightly with the small tissue as if Peter's uncouth lips were too marring for his lordly ambiance. Peter resisted the urge to wipe his own lips if just to see the offended look on the man's face.

At least, on the subject of finding the other equally demeaning, they shared a kindred opinion.

"I've got a job for you," he said, tugging on the hem of his gloves and flexing his fingers like he was testing the boundaries of his financially-veiled dominion.

' _No shit,'_ Peter wanted to say. Instead, he glanced at his designated Super-Human Probation Officer, - or, simply, SHP Officer - whose name tag read as Gary. He was giving Peter the stink eye as if picking up on his thoughts. Peter looked back, expression bleak, and rattled off robotically, "Thank you for this opportunity. How may I serve you?"

"There's this..." the man waved his hand around as if searching for the word, " _irritation_ I can't get rid of. A man who goes by Winston. He's been spreading some awful rumors about my, well...private affairs, and sending me threats. I need him stopped, preferably," his lips turned upward in a slick smile, "in a permanent fixation. With your skill-set, that shouldn't be too hard."

Peter glanced back up at Gary and grit his teeth when the look he received is blind-sided and careful. Of course, this transaction was under the table. As long as you had enough money or the right contacts, you could send a Civil Servant out to do any dirty job.

Civil Servant, his ass. When Peter was moved to the New York Service Department, he figured he'd be doing things that mattered, like stopping crooks and robberies and performing duties along-side the police. At least, that's what he was promised  _5 years ago_ when the government first started pressing down on superheroes and vigilantes.

When the new Super-Human Registration and Restriction Acts started passing, the supers who fell under it were promised paying jobs that fell in line with their lifestyle - like National Security or Police work. There were some who were accepted. Like Johnny Storm, who worked with the fire department thanks to his inflammability. Luke Cage, too, who worked with the police and, in some cases, the FBI. Peter's seen in him on the news a couple of times, more recently with an accident that occurred when a semi t-boned a taxi. Seeing the smoking metal-heap on the blacktop, swarmed with ambulances and paramedics, reminded Peter of his old superheroing days and filled him with such an innate desire to help that he had to fuse his body to his couch to keep himself from head-diving out the nearest window.

It must've been nice doing something worthwhile. Something that wasn't petty, like intimidating competition or beating up someone who owed someone else money. But Peter's infatuation for Luke's job was short-lived.

All supers, mutants, and mutates came with a set of personalized "safety-precautions" in the case that they ever got "out of control." When Peter glimpsed Luke on his way to deliver a threat to some bozo who wasn't paying a debt, he'd been surprised with how awful he looked. For someone with invulnerable skin, Luke looked in downright agony. Like every step was walking on needles. Peter didn't know what his safety precautions were, but it must've been something bad if it hurt him like that.

Peter's client tapped his sleek shoes against the lush carpet, arms locked over his chest. "Well?" he sniffed.

Peter took a small breathe to resettle his nerves, feeling unprepared for the upcoming foray into this topic. "As a Civil Servant, I am forbidden to kill anybody," he said calmly. "So, I'm afraid I'll have to turn down the job."

At his back, Gary took a long, heavy moment of suspiration, as if he couldn't endure Peter's childish moral ambiguity, nor the rules of his job, today. Which was bullshit because, 1) Peter was 26 and not wanting to kill someone was hardly childish, and 2) his probation officer was supposed to make sure  _he_ followed the rules, not the other way around.

"Don't worry 'bout it," he said, "The situations' been taken care of and you're clear to take drastic action."

Peter hid his clenched fist by clasping his hands behind his back. His jaw felt too tight when he said, "You're telling me it's been cleared by the New York City Service Department Board Members for me to kill a random guy spreading a few rumors? Sounds as believable as your date tonight, Gary."

He knew what was coming before he even sensed it. As if someone were holding a taser to his head, Peter instantly dropped when a loud, pitching ringing went off in his brain, clashing with his spider-sense so horribly he made his teeth rattle. He clutched his head in a vice gripe, squeezing as if that might make the horrendous sound leak out of his ears. It stopped after a few seconds, and Peter has to stay on his hands and knees for a minute, fingers squishing into the carpet, as his brain settled.

"You  _will_ take the job," Gary growled, hovering his finger over the remote threateningly. Peter's spider-sense went off again and he winced, rubbing his temples where a headache was blooming. He took another deep breath.

"I  _can't_."

But before his spider-sense could be used against him again, the client stepped forward, shoes dangerously close to Peter's hands. "Oh,  _fine._ I'll concede. Just rough him up a bit, knock a few teeth, snap some bones, and make sure he learns his lesson. Better?"

Peter gritted his teeth and threaded his fingers into the carpet's tussles, squeezing, throttling. They weren't going to let him back out of this, no matter how much he didn't want to. He kneeled up and nodded. "Yes."

"Good. And maybe," the client leaned down, smile greasy and eyes sickening, "you can help me with another little job tonight. I'll even pay extra. You know, you look so pretty on your knees."

Peter's jaw clenched with immediate instaurated disgust but resisted the urge to spit in the man's face. Instead, he got to his feet and held out his hand. His client took it, hand lingering just a tad too long as if to make sure his subcutaneous message was received. With that, he sauntered back toward the elevator, waving curtly over his shoulder.

"Pleasure doing business. You know your way out."

As soon as the man was gone, Gary stomped in front of Peter, lips twisted into a sickened sneer. As if his misogynistic opinions weren't unattractive enough, his heteronormative views made it that much worse. If he hated the idea of a man sleeping with another man, why did he even have Peter agree to this in the first place? Not that Peter wanted to spend a night with his client. Just because he was bi, didn't mean he wanted to sleave around in anyone's bed. But so long as Gary got paid, he could turn a blind eye to anything.

"Come on," Gary snapped, fleshy jowls jiggling grossly as he glared as if it were Peter's fault he had to witness such a thing. Peter bit his lips, swallowing back a few snappy retorts of his own, and followed behind his probation officer.

The duration of the elevator ride was spent in silence, interrupted only by a small beep as they descended past floors. By the time they made it to the sub-level, Gary rubbed his headlong and forlornly, as if the events of the night had drained him to the bone. Peter supposed standing still for so long was too tiring a task for the common doucebag. They get worn out easy if they had to exert actual effort into anything.

"You better get on with your task, then," he grumbled, waving Peter off as he descended the stairs to the basement. "You're wanted back tonight, so might as well make good use of your time, Super."

Peter watched Gary wobble down the stairs, still rubbing his head as if nursing a hangover, and didn't care to mention that he wasn't  _technically_ supposed to be left out on his own. Not in public while he was on "duty," anyway. But plenty of Probation officers slagged off on their duties the longer they held the position. Got lazy and uncaring, which was the one thing Peter could appreciate about them.

"I'll have the tracker on, so don't even think about lolly-gagging," Gary added, "Though, I suppose you'll be doing enough gagging tonight," his laugh was sharp and gross, and Peter had to dig his fingers into his sides to keep from throwing a chunk of cement at his head.

Damn those trackers to hell, too. Peter would've rather deferred his mission for as long as possible. If Gary decided he was taking too long, or too far from a specific location, he could zap Peter from anywhere in the city with enough juice to render him unconscious. If the treatment from the probation officers weren't bad enough, the "safety precautions" were enough for Peter to end his agreed conscription into the NYCSD, if they'd allow it.

He waited until Gary's footsteps faded down the stairs before Peter sighed and leaned back against the wall, hitting his head against it. What he wouldn't give just to go home and take a shower. Get out of these stupid, hot and stuffy work clothes and collapse on his bed, and sleep for the rest of his known life. It felt like he was getting less sleep than before the stupid Superhuman Restriction Laws passed, which was saying something because balancing college and vigilantism was nothing to sneeze at.

Every day seemed to pass in slow-motion, just dragging on and on, and hollowing him out piece by piece. All he could do lately was go about the day robotically and wait for his denouement in the mail.

Sighing again, Peter ran a hand over his covered head, blew out his cheeks, and pushed off the wall. His client, a patrician named Huseyin Shool was equal parts a billionaire and fuckboy. As one of the most renowned actors around, he had quite the fanbase, despite being a complete and totally disgusting bastard. Then again, he tried to keep most of his little skirmishes secret. Which was probably why he was so keen on getting them back. The guy fucked as many people as contracts he signed - there were bound to be a few rumors.

Seemed as though this Winston character was spreading more than just a few harmless rumors if Huseyin wanted him out of the picture. Peter wondered if he was one of the many unfortunate victims of Huseyin's drunken orgies.

It was palpable.

Well, he may as well get this over with as fast as possible. The sooner he confronted this Winston-character, the sooner he could head home. Despite being alone, Peter ignored the subterranean sludge that seemed to drip through his ribs whenever he was assigned tasks like this and slunk down the steps. He used to fight such assignments. Refused to do them. Stuck to his guns.

But after years of "safety precautions" and towering bills, he'd gone pliant.

"What would Aunt May and Uncle Ben think of you now, Parker?" He muttered, stomping toward the car-lot basement. Gary's sanctioned NYCSD car was already gone, and given that it was getting late, the car-lot was emptier than it might be during the day. He found the nearest exit, flung it open, and stepped out into the cooler night air.

He drank in the smell of garbage and pollution, less prominent this far uptown, but still there. The thing about this city was that you could never get the stink out. It was like a stain that couldn't be washed out no matter how many cleaning techniques you tried. It clung to you as tightly as the smog did to the buildings.

Peter jumped onto the wall and began to scale, startling the janitor disposing of a few garbage bags as he stumbled back, expression poleaxed as Peter defied gravity. He must be new up here. Supers weren't that uncommon, especially around the politicians and money-makers of the city - they had to make a living  _somehow_.

Once at the very top, Peter pulled himself up on the ledge and sat, looking over the large expanse of the city. He pulled one knee up to his chest, hugging it tightly, as the other swayed over the edge. At one point, he had thought the city was beautiful. With all it's flaws and smells, and filth, it had still managed to wiggle into a special place in his heart. It used to be  _his_ city.  _His_ home.

But now, he felt like a stranger in a foreign land. It didn't feel like the heap of concrete and metal he grew up in. He didn't recognize these buildings as his first steps toward super-heroing. Couldn't see the memories he'd etched into the streets and bridges in his earlier years. Everything felt washed away and weathered. Grainy, like staring into an old, grey picture.

It left a weeping sense of nostalgia in his chest, a quiet yearning for the city he remembered. How desperately he wished they could go back to the years before the new laws and rules. To a time when supers weren't watched so meticulously under lights and microscopes.

He missed his old life. There were so many things he'd wanted to do. He planned on interning at Stark Industries, becoming a full-fledged scientist, joining the Avengers. He even planned on settling down, eventually. Find a nice partner and go easy. But all those plans had been ripped out of his hands before he could finish perfecting them. He'd been a child trying to construct a fantasy with crayons and glitter, only to be scolded for making a mess. Most supers celibated now, not daring to attempt a settled life with the Superhuman Observation Agencies breathing down their necks every step of the way.

A happy life was unattainable. Effective representation for supers was just as untenable. They were left to squander and sulk in their own filth, masked under the pretense of doing good and righteous by their fellow citizens. They had these powers, now they were meant to do something "useful" with them.

Yeah right. The politicians and government could bungle around all they want, squashing through the problems of their nation and hiding under the halo of an angel, but Peter knew better. They were a bunch of soul-sucking demons, throwing their weight around something they were afraid of.

It reminded Peter of the Daily Bugle and how they managed to turn so many people against Spider-Man by abstinating fear. By painting a picture that he was bigger, stronger, and under no rules or restrictions, thus making him "evil." They called him a loose-canon. Said that he'd turn on them eventually if he wasn't controlled. It was a fear that spread as fast as Peter could try to stifle it.

He became a pensioner because of them. Thrown out of his efforts of "vigilantism" and coerced into the line of work as a servant to the people.

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"This is the right way to be a hero! Not like the damned vigilante you were."

"You wanted to help people, didn't you?"

 _Not like this_ , Peter thought. Not as a pack-mule that carried every petty request given to it. Not like a dog that slunk to its master to receive a command. He hated the leash they kept him on. Hated the proverbial collar that felt as real to him as the metal cuffs around his wrist. Hated this new life handed to him on a platter of fools gold.

And he hated himself, and every super, mutate, mutant, and villain for being unable to stop it.

The cuffs vibrated against his skin as if reading his thoughts. But it was just a simple reminder that he was being watched and tracked and that if he stepped out of line, he would be apprehended before he could rip the first cuff off. Taking in a deep sigh, Peter inhaled the poison of the city once more, rubbed it into his skin, drank his fill, and tipped forward, falling off the ledge.

The wind blanketed him from both sides, woven with pollution and thick with pulsing neon lights. He fell into it, opening his arms to welcome it, receiving it like an old comfort object. At least here, at this moment in time, he made the decisions. Save himself, or keep falling. A simple choice that he decided all on his own.

And as soft and biting as the wind was, his decision was always the same. He shot a strand of webbing and pulled himself from imminent death. Muscle memory and instinct took the reins after that. Web-slinging was second-nature, and so long as he knew where he was going, he didn't need to worry about the journey. Hell, it was more freeing to swing aimlessly, with no destination in mind.

But he couldn't use up his web-fluid supply. As meager as it was before all of  _this_ happened, it was worse now that the government regulated how much he got each week.

So he resorted to shooting small strands and swinging hard and arched, to cover more ground quickly. Using both hands, he propelled himself forward using a flagpole jutting from the side of a building and landed on a billboard across from his targeted edifice.

It was a pulsating building, with bright neons colors and flashing sporatic lights. Both a strip club, casino, and bar known as "The Super's Den" because of their tendency to hire old-time superheroes  _and supervillains_  - the ones who worked off their prison time through "manual labor" if they weren't already going through rehabilitation programs. It was uncivil and unjust, and the only reason it was allowed was because any government official with power got a special membership discount so long as they turned a blind eye. And because it was also  _incredibly_ popular and  _exceptionally_ profitable. Well, for those who WEREN'T supers, that is.

Peter himself probably would have ended up there if he hadn't taken the Civil Servant job.

Huseyin spent a large amount of time inside, and it was likely the birth mother of all these rumors. The Super's Den was tight-lipped, but there were always a few leaks, no matter how many times you tried to plug them up.

But Civil Servant or not, Peter couldn't just waltz in and demand Winston. Not unless he had a gracious amount of cash to cough up, which with his meager income, was laughable. He'd be more successful in selling his body, which was something he didn't have time for.

Looks like it would have to be his favorite tactic. Air-vents and open windows.

Thankfully, his luck was a bit better tonight. A high-up window was left open. Shooting forward, he propelled himself off his perch and angled his body so he shot through the open window with ease. Landing graceful and silent, he rolled over the floor and came up on his knees, surveying the room.

It was empty aside from him, and judging by the sheets that smelled of sweat and body fluid, it was recently used. Wrinkling his nose, he quickly crossed the threshold and peaked out into the hall, where the only human in sight was an octogenarian janitor mumbling crossly to herself as she dug through her cleaning tools. Peter stepped silently out into the hall and closed the door behind him. In the corner of the hall, a security camera blinked at him, and he knew he didn't have long before he was discovered and escorted out.

He strode quickly through the hallway without being seen and took the stairs down. He was on one of the pleasure floors, where sex-workers took clients. Below, in the first few floors, were for clubbing, dancers, and alcohol, which is where most of the rumors likely originated. Lot's of people, loud noises, bright lights; it'd be easy to sneak up on someone and snap an unwanted picture.

It wasn't much to start on, but then again, Peter was wishing he'd find nothing here. Hopefully, with no trace of Winston about, his trail would go cold and there'd be nothing Peter could do. Couldn't beat someone up he couldn't find. Besides, it'd be amusing to see how angry Huseyin would be when he didn't get what he wanted.

By the time he made it past the first two flights of stairs, the beat of music could be heard beyond the walls. There wouldn't be any bouncers positioned by the stairways, cause people didn't usually climb in through windows several stories up, but he'd have to be careful. As a Civil Servant, he couldn't take off his work clothes, bearing the insignia of the NYCSD, until he was off the clock, and given that he was on a late assignment that wouldn't be anytime soon.

Civil Servants weren't uncommon in high-profile places like this, paid off to spend the night attending to any particular celebrities (doing whatever they were told, from fetching drinks to more unsavory acts). It was something clubs like the Super's Den were trying to ban. What was the point of having prostitutes if people just bought Civil Servants? Even though  _technically,_ there were certain restrictions and Civil Servants weren't even supposed to be USED like that. But, so long as you had money or contacts, you could get away with just about anything, and most of it was paid under the table.

Besides, as sad as it was, sometimes Civil Servants just needed a little bit of extra cash, and that meant doing things they may not want to do. 

Peter stopped by the door leading out of the stairwell, hand hovering over the doorknob. A sick, rotten splotch of gunk seeped through his stomach and made his tongue sour. He should just walk away. Who cared about this job? If someone was bringing to the light the things Huseyin did, than why should Peter stop it? The guy had it coming. Despite already being paid by the city, Gary wouldn't get his percent of Peter's earnings if Peter didn't finish the assignment, which was even better.

But that also meant  _he_ wouldn't get paid, and his rent was overdue as it was. His landlady wasn't stingy and understood his troubles, but even she couldn't let him off with rent for much longer. Besides, Peter had responsibilities at home, things he  _needed_  to get. He NEEDED the money.

Swallowing the bile, he opened the door and slipped inside. Instantly, music bombarded his ears and he rubbed his forehead to stop from clamping his hands over his ears. The copious amount of people pressing around made him feel claustrophobic and compressed, and it took everything he had not to dart back out and swing his way home. Gritting his teeth, Peter forced on a jovial smile and eased into the crowd as if he belonged, hoping his work clothes wouldn't stand out against the flashier apparel of those around him.

Honestly, he didn't even know what he was looking for. Huseyin sent him in blind, with little to no information. All the information he really had was that Winston would be at the Super's Den and that he was a monstrous person - whatever  _that_ meant. Anything remotely uncouth was monstrous to someone like Huseyin, so it's not like he gave him much to go on.

Faintly, Peter wondered what would've happened if he'd just smote Huseyin himself. Probably would've been arrested for assaulting an "innocent" civilian and hauled away to, either, 1) some lab where he'd be treated like a pestilence needing a cure, or 2) prison where he'd be incarcerated for the rest of his life. Not the most glamorous choices and it definitely wasn't worth it.

Peter slipped in and out of the crowds, peering from person to person with tantamount equivalent to Gary finding some poor prostitute to spend the night with. The air was heavy with musk and sweat, and more than one person bungled and tottered on their feet under the influence of their drinks, but none stood out to him. The only monstrous people he could see were the sneering, slimy fingers of those watching the dancers on stage, making lewd noises and obscene gestures.

But, from what he could tell, none of them were named Winston. The longer he stewed in the crowd, the more convinced he was that this was a lost cause. If he were being honest, if he went back to Huseyin with nothing, it'd only be worse for him. Gary wouldn't let him off the hook for losing him another paycheck either and would get back at him without a doubt.

It was doubtful that any of the Super's Den staff would corroborate any Winston sitings either, not without Peter giving up his reason for being there and inevitably getting kicked out.

Peter was almost convinced Winston was going to end up as another Gordian for him to squeeze his way out of, when one of the serving girls yelled through the crowd, "Hey, Winston! We got a cheapskate over here!" and he looked up, with several other curious onlookers, to see the commotion. He followed the serving girls eyes toward the back wall where a tall, looming figure melted out of the shadows as if he'd been a part of the building.

Peter drew back, surprised that he, or anyone, hadn't noticed him there before. At least, everyone else  _looked_ surprised, but that might've been because Winston was huge, tall, and covered head-to-toe in thick, heavy scars. He tromped through the crowd that parted around him and grabbed the cowering, dizzy-eyed man the woman was pointing to by the nape of his neck.

"Really, Jerry?" He said, equal parts exasperated and bored, " _Again?_ Man, you gotta figure you're shit out, you know that right? What's this, the third time this week?"

"C'mon Winston," the man, Jerry, twisted in his grip, "I haven't got money and I just wanted a few more drinks."

"Haven't got money," Winston rolled his eyes, "Right, so what are all of those bills sticking out of your pocket." Jerry squirmed but didn't look him in the eye. " _Jerry,_ I think you need to pay Chloe over here for being so kind and gracious. Dontcha think?"

Mumbling loudly, Jerry reached into his pocket and thrust a crumpled pile of bills into the serving girls hands. "That's a good boy," Winston said brightly, "Now off we go. You know the drill."

"Thanks, Winston," Chloe said, taking a breathe, "He was starting to get handsy too."

Winston stared darkly at Jerry, who was fidgeting nervously. "Was he now?"

"Thanks for clearing him out," she handed him one of the bills. "For your efforts."

"C'mon, Clo, I can't take this. You need it way more than I do." He tried to hand it back.

Instead, Chloe picked up her serving tray and waltzed back into the crowd, "Keep it," she said over her should. "Just don't spend it all in one place."

Winston smiled, something soft and affectionate, and pocketed the bill carefully as if it were some sort of precious memorabilia. Then turned on his feet, grabbed Jerry by his shirt - who had been trying to sneak off- and marched him to the door. The crowd still watching turned away, disinterested now that the commotion was over, and went back to their entertainment.

But not Peter. He followed Winston silently, from a distance, weaving in and out of the crowd with his eyes pinned to the back of his targets dark jacket. He followed him toward the back and through a door that led into a decrepit looking alleyway, where Winston tossed Jerry out into the street.

"Now get outta here," he said, waving the grumbling lilliputian man off. "While I deal with my  _other_ problem." And with that, he turned broadly in Peter's direction. "Following people isn't very nice. How 'bout you come on out of there and tell me what you're doing, yeah?"

Peter grimaced, debating whether or not he should call his bluff and stay put. How did the guy know he was following him anyway? Not to toot his own horn, but it was hard to pick up on him when he kept quiet like that. Besides, Winston hadn't glanced behind his shoulder once.

"Come on dude, I don't have all night. Don't make me go in there after you."

Sighing, Peter stepped out of the shadowed doorway, closing it as he did, and leaned against the brick wall, decathecting himself from his pride. He shot the man a lazy two-fingered salute, "Hi."

"Hi," Winston saluted back, "What's a Civil Servant like you doing following someone like me? For the record, right now, I didn't do it. Whatever you think I did, I didn't do it. I was  _framed_."

Peter tilted his head to the side, unsure of how he felt about this strange vicissitude. "So, you  _didn't_ blackmail Huseyin with his sex life?"

"Oh," Winston shrugged, "yeah okay, I definitely did that. Guilty as charged."

Peter waved his hand unceremoniously, " _Well_ ," he gestured to himself as if that was all the reason he needed. "That's why I'm here, I guess."

Winston nodded, looking at him more scrupulously, and leaned against the dumpster one-handed, the other planted on his hip in a casual manner. "You guess?"

Peter shrugged, picking at a loose string on his sleeve. "Yeah, I mean, I think congratulations are in order, of course. The guys kind of a sicko and I'd love to see him get what's coming to him."

"Buuuuut," Winson inclined his head.

"But, that's not what I'm being paid to do. My paycheck tonight is me kicking your ass hard enough to land you in a hospital."

"Huh," Winston straightened again, stuffing his hands in his back pocket as he strode forward with a bounce in his step. "Sounds to me like you don't really want to though."

"Yeah, well, when do I ever get what I want?" Peter sighed, knowing he should probably be concerned about Winston's caprice toward the idea of getting beaten up, but couldn't find it in him to really give a shit. He was so tired.

And he definitely didn't care about Huseyin's infidelity. Hell, the guy had it coming. Peter welcomed the idea of knocking the guy off his throne and giving him a few of his own solid kicks. If he was still Spider-Man, he wouldn't have hesitated to do it. But he wasn't anymore. He was nothing but a little creep to order around. Spider-Man only existed nominally.

Winston stopped next to the steps toward the back door, resting his arms on the railings. "Suppose that's the life of a servant," he said, laying his head in his arms. "That sucks."

Peter snorted, "Thanks, man. Really know how to make a guy feel better."

"Eh, something tells me there's not much I  _can_ do to make it better. But," he smiled a crooked grin, "If you're gonna kick my ass so hard you land me in the hospital, I think you better get a move on. I have a hard ass to kick. It's gonna take a lot of manpower."

Peter snorted again, this one a little more amused. "Why do I feel like your making an innuendo?"

"Maybe because I am," Winston said, wiggling his eyebrows. "But seriously though, it's gonna take a lot to get me down. If you're gonna beat me up, hop to it."

"And you're not at all concerned about it?" Peter asked, pulling away from the wall.

Winston grinned, scratching his chin where a rather nasty looking red scar was inflamed and growing. His entire body seemed to be in slow motion in regards to his skin, as scars formed, swelled, and disappeared, creating a turbulent wave across the surface of his body. "Not really," he said, "I mean, it probably wouldn't end well for you if you  _didn't_ beat me up, and I heal fast, so I don't see a huge problem here."

That had Peter hesitating. He's been forced into bereavement for so long, in both a romantical sense and a friendship sense, that such an act of kindness (if offering to get beat up was considered kind) made his old, washed-out code of morality stir. Damnit, now he didn't want to beat this guy up  _at all_.

Sure he didn't want to in the first place, but now he  _really_ didn't.

"Ugh," he groaned, bracing himself against the railing, to the side of Winston, "Why you gotta act so nice about it?" He whined.

Winston raised an eyebrow, "Would you rather I kick and scream and fight back?"

"Yes," Peter muttered crossly, folding his arms, "at least it'd make the beating up part easier."

Winston blew out a breath, "Well fine then. I'll throw a hissy fit, stomp my feet, and throw my toys than you can beat me up. Sound fair?"

Peter looked at him through the corner of his eye and deflated, "No," he grumped. "Not really. Honestly, in regards to  _who_ you're blackmailing, I don't see how hospitalizing you is very fair. I'd rather give you a pat on the back and buy you a drink if we're being honest."

Winston laughed at that, turning so he was leaning his back against the railing, "Do you normally ask your target our for a drink before you finish the job? Pardon the unintentional innuendo."

Peter ducked his head, laughing too, "You know that's not what I meant. But, to answer the question, no I don't. You should consider yourself very lucky."

"Oh, very," Winston said, nodding seriocomically, "But, hey, don't feel too bad about beating me up. Seriously. 80% of the time I actually really deserve it, so we cool. Just try to make any breaks as clean as possible, so they'll heal up easier, and we'll be good." He shot Peter a thumbs up.

Peter sighed. But he  _didn't want to._ Every principle he buried beneath his skin was unearthing like a bunch of wriggling worms, telling him not too. He's grown into the habit of ignoring them, but they were annoyingly persistent now.

"Hey, why'd you even start blackmailing Huseyin?" Peter asked in an attempt to avoid his flailing morality, "Did he, uh, you  _know..."_

"Fuck me?" Winston asked, raising an eyebrow, "Hell no. Wouldn't let that sleeze bag touch me with a nine-foot pole, and that's saying something, because  _this_ ," he gestured to his skin, "doesn't give me a lot of potential partners as it is. Nah, I know someone who got wrapped up in his exploits. She's pregnant now  _and_ was diagnosed with an STD. As a mutant, she's not getting the help she needs to get an abortion or medical attention for that matter. I'm helping her out as best I can, but Huseyin's been trying to cover up the fuss. That's why he sent you, didn't he? To stop me from spreading the word."

"Yeah, basically," Peter muttered, "I didn't know about your friend though. I'm sorry. That sucks."

"Yep," Winston popped the 'p' and tipped his head back to star up at the smoggy sky. "She's the one who needs it though, not me. Worlds already gone to shit, so I figured I may as well protect the people who put up with me. Besides, Huseyin is a disgusting bastard and he deserves it."

"That is something we can agree on," Peter said. He ran a hand over his masked head and stared at the piles of trash heaped against the side of the dumpster. Huh, he could actually sympathize with them. He was feeling like a pile of trash himself.

"Oh, names Wade, by the way," Winston stuck his hand out toward Peter, "I tell people I'm Winston, but it's just my middle name."

"Then why tell me? The person about to beat you up for money," Peter huffed but shook his hand anyway. "Name's Peter. Just don't call me out on the job."

"You seem trustworthy,  _Peter_. A chill, down-to-earth kinda guy. I don't think you'll go blabbing it to people."

Wade let go of Peter's hand and Peter returned it to the bar, where it lay against his other arm, lingering with warmth from Wade's fingers. Well, he was right about one thing, Peter wouldn't go blabbing it. As far as anyone else knew, Wade was just Winston.

Which, might help actually.

"Well," Peter said, pushing himself back up, "better get to it then."

"Right," Wade pushed himself upright and shirked off his jacket, laying it over the railing. "Make it fast, aight? I've got to finish my shift." He stood in front of Peter, arms at his side, and waited. Peter stared at him for a second, before grabbing Wade's jacket and tossing it back to him.

Wade caught it, eyes wide and expression nonplussed.

"I'm afraid I can't complete my task," Peter said, grinning, "I showed up at the Super's Den looking for a Winston and all I found was a guy named Wade. Guess he wasn't here and his trails gone cold. Nothing I can do about it now."

A smile twitched to the side of Wade's lips and he pulled his jacket on. "Your a tricky one," he said.

Peter shrugged, "Huseyin's just gonna have to deal with it. Just promise me you'll keep spreading those rumors and being a pain in his ass."

Wade saluted him, "Aye, aye, Captain,"

Peter shook his head, smiling, and jumped over the railing, heading for the mouth of the alleyway, "We'll see you, Wade. Say hi to your friend for me."

"So long as you stay out of trouble, Peter," Wade said at his back, tone light and playful, "Ya sneaky bastard,"

At Peter's back, the door to the building closed. Once sure Wade was in the building, Peter jumped up the wall and quickly made his way to the top. He had some bad news to deliver to a fuckboy.

* * *

 

* * *

"That is...unfortunate," Huseyin murmured, twirling the glass of wine in his hand, staring at it as though it were hallow. "And your sure Winston can't be tracked."

Peter nodded. He stood in front of the celebrity, shoulders back, staring at the spot just behind Huseyin."Yes. Whoever this guy was, he's careful. He cleaned up his trail before I could get there. I can't find him."

"Maybe you just weren't looking hard enough," Huseyin suggested, setting his wine glass on the table with pursed lips, similar to that of a pouting brat.

"My time at the Super's Den was limited," Peter said, "I'm not allowed in there for very long."

Huseyin uncrossed his legs and lay his hand across his stomach, the picture of ease and indulgence. "What a shame. You know that means I'm not paying you, right?"

Peter nodded.

"So it's safe to assume you're looking for some other way to earn money."

Peter hesitated, but slowly nodded again.

"Well," Huseyin smirked, "I think we can figure something out," he gestured for Peter to come closer. Peter's feet felt lined with cement, but he did until he was standing directly in front of the man. "Kneel."

Peter did. "My mask can't come off," he said, positioning himself between Huseyin's legs, "Not completely. It's against the rules."

"That's fine. All I need is your mouth, and, well," Huseyin's eyes drifted to the side, getting a look at his rear end, "among other things. Now," his fingers trailed down to his pants, "let's have a little fun."

* * *

 

* * *

It was late when Peter finally found himself on the front steps of the apartment complex. The kind of late when the criminals and shady-ass people stepped out of the shadow, looking for someone to target.

A couple of times, a few tried to approach him, but he made it evidently clear that they should keep their distance. He was not in the mood. He still wore his work clothes, so he felt as though he was a walking pile of filth.

Huseyin hadn't given him the time to even clean himself up before he was being probed out the door, threatened to remain quiet about this while slipping a check and a few bills in his hand.

"A tip for being so good for me, despite failing to find Winston," he had purred in Peter's ear, making Peter want to slap him with his own money. Instead, he stuffed it in the slim pocket at his waist and slumped home to nurse what was left of his broken dignity.

The name-plate on the side of the building read as "Haven Home" and it was just as it said. A Haven. As soon as Peter stepped into the main lobby, the stress and anxiety of the outside world dripped off him like droplets of water.

His landlady was out, but she must've known he was coming in late because of the sandwich sitting on the main table. A sticky note was placed on the top of the bread, with a little smiley face scrawled next to his name. He smiled a soft, tired smile, and took the plate up with him to his room.

His apartment was farther up, near the top floors. He would've just swung up there, but couldn't find the energy once he escaped Huseyin's penthouse. He was low on webbing anyway, and he needed to clear his head. Besides, if he had, he would've missed the sandwich waiting for him. He fished his key out of his shoe and quickly went in.

Inside, it was clean. Well, sort of. There were coloring books on the floor, a few small toys here and there, and unwashed dishes in the sink. But it wasn't too shabby considering how much Peter wasn't home during the week.

He peeled off his mask and tossed it on his bed as soon as he walked in his room. As soon as that was off, a suddenly stifling and overwhelming urge to rid his body of the dirtied costume had him tearing it off and throwing it across the room, where it thumped against the wall and landed in a heap.

Even naked, he felt absolutely disgusting and stepped into the shower before it could even warm up. He scrubbed at every inch of his body with a ferocious tenacity, digging the soap and loofah so roughly against his skin, it any other circumstances it would've left scratches.

 _This is your life_ , his thoughts spat at him as he cleaned himself.  _The wonderful hero. The Amazing Spider-Man, reduced to the life of a servant to the public. To selling himself to anyone with a bit of cash_.

"That doesn't make me a bad person," Peter mumbled, thumping his head against the plastic tiled wall, "I'm supporting myself."

_Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, Parker._

He didn't have it in him to fight it today. With a tired sigh, Peter turned the water off and hopped out. He quickly towel dried and pulled on a pair of dirty sweat pants. Note to self: do laundry tomorrow.

Rubbing at his eyes, he lumbered back into his room, only to freeze as a small figure stared at him from the edge of his bed. He slowed.

"Miles? What are you doing out of bed?"

The little boy shrugged, twisting his tiny hands in one of Peter's shirts that he used for pajamas. It was huge on him, falling completely down to his knees, and dotted with milk stains. "I've been waiting for you to get back. Camille said you'd be late again today."

Peter crouched next to him, "Have you been waiting for me this whole time?"

He nodded, "I did fall asleep once," he admitted sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry about that.  _I'm_ sorry for working late again," Peter kissed the top of his head and ruffled his hair with a smile.

"Are you working tomorrow?" Miles asked, holding Peter's wrist where Peter's hand was still splayed over his little head.

Peter shook his head, "Nope. I'm home free for the weekend. You'll be stuck with me  _all day_."

Miles smiled toothily at that and scrambled back into Peter's bed. "Can I sleep in here tonight? My rooms lonely."

Peter got back to his feet, "Yeah, sure. So long as you don't kick me again, like a little kangaroo."

Miles giggled and snuggled deep into the blanket, hugging a pillow to his chest. "G'night Peter. I'm glad your back."

Peter smiled at him as he slipped into the covers, reflecting that  _this_ was the reason he needed the money. He'd bend over backward for Miles. He'd take all the jobs Huseyin offered as long as it kept Miles safe and comfortable. If it were just himself, things would be different.

It wasn't and Peter wouldn't change that.

"Me too, Miles. We'll see you in the morning."

**Author's Note:**

> And done! Don't know when the next update will be. 
> 
> But thanks for reading! :D


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